


The Final Proof

by Canon_Is_Relative, ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Woman may be gone, but the chaos that she left in her wake remains. There's a distance between John and Sherlock now; one that John isn't sure how to bridge, one that Sherlock doesn't believe can be bridged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Proof

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: We own nothing.
> 
> Notes: Believe it or not, this fic is in no way connected to the "Winter's Child" 'verse. We began this right after "A Scandal in Bohemia" first aired, and the US premiere yesterday inspired us to finish it. Enjoy!

Sherlock stood in the middle of the floor, coaxing sounds out of his violin the likes of which had probably never been heard outside of The Royal Albert Hall, his back to the room, his eyes wide and fixed on the blank wall in front of him, staring at nothing. 

   
John stood watching Sherlock. Lestrade leaned against the door frame, watching not Sherlock - for once in his miserable life - but John. The good doctor's arms were folded across his chest, shoulders tense. He looked...  _Hell, he looks bloody miserable._     
   
Sherlock didn't falter, didn't seem to register Lestrade's presence as he stepped into the flat. John did, though; he roused himself, consciously relaxing his stance and conjuring a self-deprecating smile for the detective inspector. Lestrade tried hard to keep the pity off his face.    
   
"He's still at it, as you can see." John gestured towards his flatmate. "I told him you were on your way, he didn't respond."    
   
Lestrade shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He'd never stood on ceremony when visiting Baker Street, and now even less so. Since the Adler woman had come onto the scene, and left it again just as abruptly, his visits had taken on an after-hours feel. He was pretty sure he'd left a shirt or two around here somewhere and John had begun to stock his brand of coffee. Christ but he could hardly remember what his life was like before these two came into it.    
   
"Still pining, then?" He asked, making his way into the kitchen to hunt around for the biscuits he'd brought over the other day. He hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast, nearly twenty hours earlier.    
   
"Cupboard left of the sink," John called, sitting down at his computer. "And yeah. He's still...well...yeah."    
   
Lestrade bit gratefully into a stale Hobnob and chewed thoughtfully. "Have you tried to snap him out of it?"    
   
John only glared at him.     
   
Lestrade swallowed and decided,  _Hell with it._  These two were making his life hell, and he could see the agony on John's face clear as grammar school bloody arithmetic. He poured out a cup of cold coffee from the pot on the counter and, staring into its greasy depths, murmured, "Have you ever considered just  _telling_  him how you feel?"    
   
John's glare turned to a slack, open-mouthed stare. He looked so much the teenaged boy caught out with his top-shelf mag that Lestrade snorted cold coffee up his nose, turning away to muffle his splutters in his suit sleeve.     
   
When he caught his breath he turned back to grin at John. "Just because he's Sherlock doesn't mean he has the slightest clue, you know."   
   
"Unlikely," said a dry voice from behind them. John and Lestrade started and turned to look at Sherlock. He'd stopped playing and was still standing with his back to them, right hand still raised with his bow resting against his temple. His silhouette in the low light of the flat looked shadowy and severe. Lestrade dusted biscuit crumbs off his fingers and tugged on the hem on his jacket. "I rarely miss a clue. Don't bother telling me about the case, I can smell it on you. Do you need me to come teach Anderson how to do his job, or will I be investigating the factory itself? How many dead, was it two or three?"   
   
John and Lestrade exchanged aggrieved glances, and with a groan Lestrade pushed himself away from the counter, pacing back to his coat to pull out his case notes. Sherlock refused to listen to his briefing, insisting that he be taken to the paper mill at once.

   
\-----    
   
From: John Watson    
To: DI G. Lestrade    
Subject: Sherlock    
   
Hi, Lestrade    
   
Nothing's wrong, don't worry. He's been sleeping the past twenty hours, since you wrapped the case. Which I guess would be wrong if he were anyone else. But I don't need to tell you all that, you know what he's like better than anyone. Far better than me, I've realised. That's why I'm writing to you, actually. I'm at a complete loss. I don't know what to do about him, about this whole situation. Before all of this, things were going well, you know. You saw how he was, you told me you'd never seen him so...what the hell was that word you used..."blithe" I think. Is that a word? I mean, of course it is. But is it a Sherlock word? I didn't think so at the time, but compared to this, I'm inclined to think you were right. Have you known him to get like this, ever? Is this just how he is when he falls for someone? Do you think I should be doing anything else for him? I'm sorry, I'm not trying to unload my flatmate troubles on you, tell me to sod off if you haven't got the time.     
   
Thanks Lestrade, and sorry to be a bother.    
   
John    
   
\----    
   
From: G. Lestrade    
To: John Watson    
Subject: re: Sherlock    
   
Hi, John,    
   
First off, call me Greg. Think we're at that point now, yeah? And...yeah, I've seen him like this. Or, at least, I think I have, if you're describing what I think you are, from what I saw the other day. What else has he been doing besides the sleeping - eating at all? Still composing? Trying to sneak cigarettes or a drink? I think...well, I think you're in for a rough ride. He has these...moods, I suppose, but that's almost too mild of a word. Black days. He won't talk, he won't eat, he'll sleep for hours on end. He sort of folds in on himself; retreats into his mind and broods. Keep him as clean as you can. If you need to come to my place to hide cigarettes or the like, just let me know.    
   
As to your other question - this is how he responds to a loss, John. I suppose you could look at it as him falling for someone, yes, but he fell for someone and subsequently lost that person. Or he feels he has, at least.    
   
And I'm not talking about that Adler woman.     
   
-G.    
   
\----    
   
From: John Watson     
To: DI G. Lestrade     
Subject: re: Sherlock    
   
He doesn't just think he lost her, Greg. She's dead. Mycroft told me. We've told him she's in a witness protection programme in America, but...you know how he is. I don't think he believed it for a moment. She's dead, the first person since Moriarty to interest him.     
   
And how is it that the people who interest Sherlock are the ones any sane person would go running away from if given half a chance? I dunno Greg, maybe they were right for each other - he's a bloody masochist.   
   
\---    
   
From: G. Lestrade     
To: John Watson     
Subject: re: Sherlock    
   
You're not listening to me, John. At least the two of you have that in common. Yes, he fell. Yes, he thinks he lost. And I'm still not talking about that Adler woman.     

\-----    
   
Text from: John Watson    
   
 _Not talking about the Adler woman? Who the hell else would he be mourning, then?_    
   
   
Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _Don't be daft, man._    
   
   
   
Text From: John Watson    
   
 _I'm really not. What else has changed, besides that? He was happy. Maybe starting to get bored with our life going so well, but that's it. Then she came along and changed everything._    
   
   
Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _Exactly. She changed everything. But not because he fell in love with her. Do you really not know?_    


Text From: John Watson    
   
 _Really not in the mood for this, if I wanted to be made a fool of I'd go talk to Sherlock._    
   
   
Text From: John Watson    
   
 _Sorry, Greg. Worn thin. I'm an idiot, don't mind me._    
   
   
Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _She made him realise that there are things in this world he can't understand. Sex, for one. And he thinks that rules out the possibility of a relationship with someone he actually does care about._  

   
Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _Which would be you._  

   
Text From: John Watson    
   
 _That's seriously not funny, Greg._    


Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _I'm not trying to be funny. He's fallen for you, Watson. Now what are you going to do about it?_    
   
   
Text From: John Watson    
   
 _You're daft. You're absolutely bloody delusional. What the hell are you playing at, Lestrade?_  
   
   
Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _Christ, John. He's bloody head over heels for you, or his version of it at least._     


Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _And he thinks the bloody world's ended because you couldn't possibly love a man like him._  


Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _John?_    
   
   
Text From: John Watson    
   
 _What the hell am I supposed to do with that?_    
   
   
Text from: G. Lestrade    
   
 _Hell if I know._   

\----- 

   
Text from: John    
   
 _You alive in there Sherlock?_  

   
Text from: John    
   
 _Going for a Chinese. I'll bring you something_  


Text from: John    
   
 _Back with food. Dim sum, Sherlock?_    


Text from: John    
   
 _Your fortune: "Love is like wildflowers...it is often found in the most unlikely places."  That's a bit rubbish, isn't it? That's not a fortune it's a saying. & in this flat it would work better as fungus than wildflowers. That is to say I found mushrooms growing in that slipper you put under the sink last month, you gonna to do something about it?  _  


Text from: John    
   
 _Come on Sherlock, please answer me?_  
   
   
Text from: Sherlock     
   
 _I'm busy, John. Do stop texting me._     
   
   
Text from: John    
   
 _Busy w what? You've been in there almost two days_    


Text from: Sherlock    
   
 _Please leave me alone, John. It's a delicate experiment._    
   
   
Text from: John    
   
 _What if I told you Lestrade's got a case for you?_    
   
   
Text from: Sherlock    
   
 _Lestrade always contacts me directly about cases. I have not heard from him since we wrapped the last one._    
   
   
Text from: John    
   
 _Ok, so what if I told you I bloody miss you when you do this and I've been sitting out here for two days just waiting for you to come out so we can carry on_    
   
   
Text from: Sherlock    
   
 _I also am very aware of the time we have spent apart._  

   
Text from: Sherlock    
   
 _Nevertheless, it is necessary._    
   
   
Text from: John    
   
 _All right. Do what you have to. I'll be here. As always._

   
\-----  

   
John sat in the living room, a book propped open on his knee, stuck on page 34 as he had been for the past half an hour. His mobile was clutched in his other hand, and he kept absent-mindedly swiping a thumb across the screen. He debated texting Lestrade again, but the last thing he wanted was for this - whatever it was - to become even more of a schoolyard drama than it already was. He couldn't keep running to the other man with his troubles.    
   
 _Think, Watson. You can handle this. No different than any other tiff you've ever had._     
   
Except that it was. It was with Sherlock, and that fact alone made it alien; unpredictable. And Lestrade was the only other human on the planet, John felt, who came even remotely close to understanding Sherlock.    
   
Well, except for Adler - but he didn't want to think about her right now, and tried to focus on his book again.     
   
 _Do I go to him? Stay here and wait for him to come out? God, Watson, you're pathetic. This is_ Sherlock,  for god's sakes.      
   
And that was precisely the problem.  

   
\---------  

   
From:  G. Lestrade     
To:  Sherlock Holmes     
   
Subject: none    
   
You should pick up your bloody phone more often, you know that? Well, you'll probably ignore what I have to say, but at least this way you'll read it.     
   
Go talk to John.    
   
And don't ask what about. You know very well what I'm going to say. It's bleeding obvious how you feel about him. He's got it in his head that you were in love with that Adler woman, and you keeping silent on the matter isn't helping any. And I know why you're keeping quiet, too. But don't underestimate him, Sherlock. He's surprised you before. He might do the very same thing now.     
   
And please eat something. Don't make me come over there and haul you out of that damn bed.    
   
-G.  

   
\------  

   
From:  S. Holmes     
To:  G. Lestrade     
Subject: Re: none    
   
What's this, Detective Inspector, has John reduced you to dredging up material for that penny dreadful he calls his blog?    
   
SH  

   
\-----------    
 

From:  G. Lestrade     
To:  Sherlock Holmes     
Subject: Re: none    
   
Come off it. John would never publish something like this in his blog, and you know it. He's just worried about you.     
   
And he's not the only one.     
   
Look, I know you're hesitant because of what happened last time. But John's not Victor, and you're not the drug-addict I pulled out of the gutter six years ago.    
   
So go talk to him.     
   
-G.  

   
\-------  

   
Sherlock emerged from his bedroom immaculately dressed in his favourite suit and pressed white shirt. Bare feet. His movements were deliberate, moving-through-water precise, as they were when he was intoxicated, or when, as now, he was focusing all his attention on keeping the tremble from his limbs. Brain and body sluggish with lack of food and stimulation - unacceptable. He stood in the kitchen contemplating the jumble of food in the pantry, his lip curling at the thought of putting any of it into his body. He kept his eyes ahead of him, reaching out with all his other senses for John.    
   
He heard John give a sigh and shove himself out of his chair. Always, that sigh. Always painfully obvious how irksome John found this to be - this task of  _looking out for Sherlock._  No one had asked him to. No one expected him to.  John himself didn't seem to take any joy in it. What, then, was he after? Sherlock could no longer believe that John stayed with him merely because he provided the thrills and excitement that the army doctor needed to survive. There was that, and it had started as that - that had been the initial attracting force, the binding agent. That, Sherlock understood. Down to his bones and deeper, Sherlock understood. But there was more than that, and that fascinated him. Baffled and infuriated him.    
   
When John's presence in the kitchen doorway could no longer be ignored, Sherlock sighed and said without looking at him, "Is it really so difficult to keep the flat in biscuits and bread, John? You've clearly just been down to the shops and even went down the biscuit aisle but you couldn't be troubled to - ah." He blinked, cutting himself off as he saw a flash of familiar packaging behind a packet of Lestrade's coffee. He lifted his hand slowly to push it aside, pulling out the tin of his favourite ginger snaps. He slid his fingertips across the lettering, then picked it up and turned away from the pantry to push past John into the living room.    
   
"I take it you're feeling better, then?" John asked, following him. Sherlock said nothing in response. He took a seat at the table that functioned as a desk and opened a laptop - his own, this time. John resumed his seat and picked up his book, but did not continue to read. "Sherlock?"    
   
"Fine, yes, thank you, John," he said distractedly, and opened the tin of ginger snaps. He nibbled at one, disinterested.     
   
"D'you...want some tea?" John tried. Sherlock did not answer, and after thirty seconds of silence John's voice, sharp and angry, broke across his concentration. "Dammit, Sherlock, why won't you talk to me? What've I done wrong?"    
   
"Wrong?" Sherlock's teeth snapped through a biscuit, the sound of it echoing inside his head. "Nothing, why do you ask? Tea isn't necessary I'm going out in a minute. Have you seen my shoes?"    
   
Cramming the rest of the biscuit into his mouth he typed furiously on his laptop for a moment, trying to get down the scrap of an idea that had drifted across his field of vision that morning; it had seemed inconsequential until John mentioned tea and suddenly the question of how that certain cocktail of chemicals could have gotten into the lungs became much more complex and far more interesting.   
   
The lab, he had to get to the lab. Never mind that the case was ten years old and stone cold. And to the chemist, before they closed. Bloody Sunday afternoon, what a useless time of a useless day. He closed his laptop with a decisive snap and stood, whirling around and surveying the room. "Shoes?"    
   
At John's soft noise of surprise he caught himself mid-reel and froze, his back to John. He stiffened, slowly straightening his spine, drawing himself up. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing as he heard John inhale, waiting for his friend to break the silence.    
   
"Don't go," John said, and all but propelled forward, the words spilling from his lips as though he needed to get them out before he had a chance to stop and think about the implications. “Please. Don't go.”    
   
Sherlock reached for the scarf he'd left draped over the back of a chair, knotting it deliberately around his neck, buying time.    
   
Interesting.  _Buying Time._  Not a phrase or a concept he subscribed to, himself. Interesting choice of words - one he was sure The Woman would applaud. She who'd lived in a world where everything was for sale - everything could be bought. Even (especially) her time. Her time...a thing that Sherlock hadn't wanted. Not in the way he was supposed to want it, anyway; just in the way that made him a freak.

Dancing with her had felt, for brief, exalting moments, like having Moriarty back - and that was not something he was supposed to want. But he'd seen it, felt it, could not deny it. An intellect worthy to match his own against; he'd known from the first that there was a bright, cunning wit behind that obnoxious packaging of sex and scandal. And it was that which had lured him in. That which had led John to his erroneous assumptions. And it was Sherlock's own assumption that he could play this game with her, that it would be no different from any other, that had proved a nearly fatal error. His intellect had betrayed him. She had outplayed him. The Woman.     
   
His lip curled in an involuntary sneer and he smoothed his scarf down against his chest, reaching for his coat. Time bought - time wasted. He would not delete so much as a second of the time he had spent pitted against her, but he would not encourage such reflections either. Not when John was standing behind him, his presence there a bright point on the otherwise dull map of the world, and asking -     
   
\- no.  _Begging._  Begging for what? What did he want? What was he waiting for, what was Sherlock supposed to give him?    
   
Talk, according to Lestrade. Which was ridiculous; he and John didn't  _talk._  He pulled his gloves out of his pocket, sliding his hands into them, enjoying their worn-in embrace, each finger wrapped snugly, palms kept separate from the rest of the world, held safely away from accidental contact with anything, anyone, distasteful. This was who he was. Separate. Aloof. Distant. Apart. He was a glove - John was a mitten. Mrs Hudson had said so, after her third glass of Christmas sherry. _More metaphors. Why can't people just say what they mean? Why all this fancy trimming, why the obsession with packaging?_ He knew. He understood. Of course he did. But he was finding it more intolerable by the day.    
   
He reached for the door handle, pausing to look over his shoulder. "Coming?" 

John's response took a moment longer than was normal for him. “Are you sure you want me?”

The words brought Sherlock up short, physically stopping him as he slipped an arm into the sleeve of his coat.  _Want_ . It always came back to that, didn't it? She had sat there, in John's chair, and asked essentially that.

_Have you ever had anyone?_

Sherlock swallowed and said, in a voice quite unlike his own, “Yes,” and didn't bother distinguishing, in his mind, between the two different ways that John's question could be interpreted. He wanted John. And he  _wanted_   John.

   
John, used to his flatmate leaving him in the dust, nearly walked into Sherlock in his haste to join him. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, stone-still, staring into space. John put up a hand to steady himself, and found Sherlock's shoulder.    
   
Sherlock shifted slightly under his touch, but did not pull away. "Would you consider me to be a truthful person, John?"   
   
"Of cour - wait, why?"

   
Sherlock's voice was grim. "Hardly a resounding vote of confidence."   
   
"Why are you asking?"   
   
"Why aren't you answering?"   
   
John blew out an impatient breath. "Sherlock, I don't know. I don't know what you want me to say. Do I think you'd be deceptive just for the sake of it, or to hurt someone? No, bloody no, of course not. Do I think that you see truth as a thing you can use to manipulate things, and, yeah, people, to get the results you need? Yeah. So what are you asking me, Sherlock?"   
   
"I'm asking you to believe something I thought you already knew."   
   
"Ok, fine. And that is?"   
   
"She - The Woman. She didn't want me...the way that you believe that she did." Sherlock gave a quick quirk of his mouth. “Well... perhaps she did. But I didn't want her. Not in that fashion.”   
   
"Oh...kay...I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm not following."   
   
Sherlock waved a hand impatiently, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He continued to stare out into the hallway, not looking at John. "I can say for certain that she didn't love me anymore than I loved her. I told her - " he broke off with an impatient sigh. Coming to this conclusion had been difficult enough in the privacy of his mind. His voice rumbled low in his chest as he continued, "You may remember what I told you, that I said to her,  _I've always assumed love was a dangerous disadvantage._ "   
   
"Yeah, I remember. And then you thanked her for the 'final proof,' yeah?"   
   
"Yes. I did and - I was wrong."   
   
"How's that?"   
   
"I was...wrong. The feelings I ascribed to her were...incorrect. We each have our methods, she and I. Our games. And she outplayed me. At every turn, even when I believed that I was winning, she…she beat me. In ways that are still revealing themselves to me. She won."

Sherlock became aware that John had not removed his hand as his friend squeezed his shoulder gently and said, “I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I still don't follow.”   
   
He could feel his pulse leaping in his neck as he turned his head to finally met John's gaze. “I believe you do, actually.”   
   
“Okay,” John conceded. “Maybe I do. A bit. But - tell me?” 

"Sex, John. Physicality. intellect and experience - what many would call  _intuition._  These were the tools in her arsenal and she used them, as you saw, to great effect against me. She found my weaknesses, the gaps, if you will, in my knowledge, and used them against me because I had no defence against her.” Sherlock sighed, feeling an unexpected weight beginning to lift from his chest. He felt lighter. And the words, as he said them, were easier this time; "She won. And that's all there is to it. All there was between us. The game."

“She… made you aware of your lack of experience,” John ventured, trying to put the pieces together.  _Oh, John_ . “You say you weren't in love with her. Okay, fine. But then she realised that you were attracted to her, and that you didn't know what to do with that. And… she used that to her advantage.”

Sherlock was shaking his head even before John had finished his sentence. “No, no, John. You aren't  _listening_ . She made me aware that my lack of experience sometimes is problematic, yes. But not because I was attracted to her. That's the furthest thing from the truth. She  _distracted_   me with this lack of knowledge; taunted me with it while at the same time manipulating half the government with her charms. I had no chance against her because I don't  _understand_   it. Sex. Nor do I desire it.”

John's hand was still there, a warm, steady presence through layers of cloth. John squeezed him again and murmured, "I didn't realise."

Sherlock shook his head. No, John understood, more than he was letting on. But his feigned ignorance was going to work -  _damn him_  - and Sherlock found himself plunging ahead. “You thought that I had feelings for her - feelings you hadn't believed me capable of. And, to that end, you thought also that I desired a sexual relationship with her.”

John nodded. Slowly. his eyes never leaving Sherlock's, even as his gaze grew more intense.  _Hungry_ , Sherlock might have said, if he was given to poetry.

"And you were… jealous." It wasn't really a question, as Sherlock had read the answer in John's eyes the moment before he asked it. John gave another slow nod. Sherlock pressed his lips together, and drew a shaky breath in through his nose. "But you do realise…you know... You  _should_  know that I am incapable of maintaining that type of relationship. The kind that you're thinking of; the kind you - mistakenly - thought I might have sought with Miss Adler.”   
   
“Why would you say that?” 

Sherlock's lips twisted into a wry smile, and Mycroft's voice echoed in his head as he drawled, “Because it's to do with sex, John.” The smile dropped quickly from his face and he added, sombre, “It's always to do with sex. And that's one thing I can't give. Which, obviously, precludes any sort of romantic relationship with another person. Do you understand?”

“No.”

John's answer stopped Sherlock cold; he might have gone so far to say that he was  _struck dumb_ . Speechless. Interesting. He had not expected John to put up with him as something-more ; that would have been too much to ask of anyone, least of all John. But for him to not  _understand_ ; for him to not realise that, for Sherlock, bodily urges had nothing to do with roman -

   
\- And then John placed both hands on Sherlock's shoulders, bracing himself as he went up on the balls of his feet, just enough so that he could brush his lips lightly against Sherlock's.    
   
 _Oh._     
   
“Now, I'm going to do that again,” John said gently, a smile tugging at his lips. He brushed his thumb across Sherlock's and added, “And you're going to tell me when you want me to stop.”

There was almost no space between them, and from this angle, John looking up at him, Sherlock could see his pupils dilate, and his nostrils flare. Could hear his soft breath of anticipation.

_Tea. Steam. Vapours. Inhalations. Of course._

He reached up, taking John's hands in his (and sparing half a heartbeat to resent the impersonal leather of the gloves that lay between his skin and John's), a smile stretching across his face, his disused muscles aching joyfully with it.

"John," he breathed, "you are…" and he ducked his head to kiss his friend, reveling in John's startled gasp and the way he quickly began to relax against him. Oh, fascinating. But no  _time._

"Come on," he cried, breaking away abruptly, but not letting go of John's hand. " _Hurry!_ "

"Where, Sherlock?" John was laughing, breathless, and grinning widely. "Where do you possibly -"

"The lab, John! We have to get to the lab, there are lives at stake!"

"Oh for - really?"

"Well - no. Not, actually. Cold case. But think of your readers, John! You haven't given them anything interesting in ages. This could change, well, this could change  _everything._  Come  _on_ !" 

And so, still laughing, still grinning, still grasping Sherlock's hand, John allowed himself to be pulled from their flat and out into their next adventure.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> **  
>  Totally unauthorized author's note from Canon:    
>  **   
>  Working with Imp, on anything, is an unqualified delight and tremendous honour. This fact is never far from my mind but sometimes, as when working on this piece which was such a truly collaborative effort - a melding of the minds, it felt like - I am just blown away by how fortunate I am to get to work with such a talented artist, and so grateful! Imp, the honour is mine. Thank you for all that you do :) 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Totally unauthorized note from Imp** :
> 
> (You thought you could sneak that note by me, didn't you?) :)  
> Dear, the honor is all mine. I can't even begin to describe what a joy these past few months have been. It's been a delight writing with you, and I can't wait to see what the future will bring!


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